


Talking Body (put it on me)

by sparxwrites



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Alien Sex, Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, Bioluminescence, Food Kink, Inflation, M/M, Non-Human Genitalia, Other, Sex, Stuffing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 07:06:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6694465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“<i>Par</i>vis!” yelled Strife, “What the <i>hell</i> do you think you’re doing?”</p><p>(In which Strife comes home to find Parvis in his kitchen, eating his dinner, and is less than pleased about it. Kink, and sex, ensues.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Talking Body (put it on me)

**Author's Note:**

> who wants 8k of parvill stuffing kink!!! ...probly no one other than me, but hey ho, you’re getting it anyways. btw, i know my kink is not your kink and that’s okay, but i’m really not up for going through the whole “endless jokes about eggs” thing again with this. if you don’t like it, or think it’s weird, don’t read instead of giving me shit about it.
> 
> (draft title of this, for anyone that cares, is "i feel only shame and the unending embrace of the void, but parvis looks cute stuffed so full he can't breathe". yes, i know i'm trash.)

“ _Par_ vis!” yelled Strife, “What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?”

It had been a long day – a long, _stressful_ day full of dealing with a tricksy demigod who was entirely too good at acting like an innocently overexcited puppy rather than the slippery bastard he actually was – and Strife had been looking forward to getting home, having dinner, and _relaxing_. What he had neither anticipated nor hoped for, though, was the presence of a certain blood mage in his house. A certain, distinctly _uninvited_ blood mage.

Especially given said blood mage was sat at his dining room table with the dish of lasagna that was supposed to be Strife’s dinner for the next several days in front of him – casually eating _directly from the dish_ like a goddamn _savage_.

“Oh, hey Strifey!” said Parvis, cheerfully, the words muffled by his mouthful of food. Swallowing hard, and coughing a little when something that hadn’t been chewed enough nearly went down the wrong way, he set the fork down and waved. “How was your day? Probably boring, your days are _always_ boring. My day, though, was-”

“I don’t give a good goddamn about your day, Parvis!” snapped Strife, hands curling into fists. He crossed his arms, fighting against the urge to take a swing at the blood mage – not that it would do much good with his blood network powering him, but it was the principle of the thing. There’d be emotional satisfaction, along with his bruised knuckles and Parvis’ unmarked face. “What I want to know why you’re _here_ , in _my_ goddamn kitchen, eating _my_ goddamn dinner!”

Parvis’ eyes widened a little at the outburst, and he glanced down at the lasagna in front of him with raised eyebrows. “Oh, this is- you were going to have this for dinner?” he said, all innocence and surprise. “If I’d known _that_ , Strifey, I wouldn’t have eaten it.”

It was only through sheer force of will that Strife didn’t end up _howling_ his next few words. “Why the _hell_ ,” he managed, instead, words dangerously low and forced out through gritted teeth, “would I have it in the oven cooking, if I _wasn’t goddamn well planning on eating it, Parvis_?!”

“I don’t _know_ ,” whined Parvis, sticking his lip out. He glanced down at the lasagna, prodding it with a fork, and then back up at Strife. “It was just… I was _hungry_ , and it looked so good… and it really is, Strifey! It’s delicious!” He grinned at Strife, a nervous sort of smile, as if hoping that taunting Strife regarding the tastiness of his would-have-been dinner was going to diffuse the situation.

Unsurprisingly, it did not.

“Well,” snapped Strife, leaning a hip against the table to glare down at Parvis. “Maybe, if it’s so _delicious_ , you should eat the whole goddamn thing.” His blood was boiling, now, the familiar, itching, _furious_ frustration that only Parvis managed to conjure in him crawling across his skin.

The hopeful smile slid off Parvis’ face, replaced with a determined scowl. “Well!” snapped Parvis back, never one to back down from a challenge, “maybe I will!” He picked up the fork, grinned brightly and unpleasantly up at Strife with bared, slightly threatening teeth, and shovelled another huge mouthful of lasagna into his open mouth.

Strife hissed through his teeth, threw his hands up in the air, and turned away from the disgusting sight of Parvis trying to chew a mouthful of food that was far too big for his mouth. “Hopeless,” he muttered to himself, stalking off towards the fridge and yanking it open. There were probably some leftover noodles from last time he’d bribed Nano into making some of her fantastic food. “Hopeless and _revolting_.”

“I heard that!” called Parvis indignantly, through a mouthful of food.

“Do I _sound_ like I care?” called Strife back, irritably, digging out a cardboard carton that was half-filled with noodles from the back of the fridge. They were a week old, and doubtless wouldn’t taste as good reheated as they had fresh, but since _someone_ had _eaten his dinner_ , they’d have to do.

He shoved the noodles in the microwave with a little more aggression than was strictly necessary, fetched some chopsticks from the cutlery draw – all in silence, all to the background noise of Parvis eating lasagna with a distinctly sullen air. Quite how he was managing that, Strife didn’t know, but if anyone could manage to make eating sound rebellious and sulky, it was Parvis.

Muttering indistinct, generalised insults under his breath, Strife yanked the cardboard carton out of the microwave when it beeped and stomped over to the table – very deliberately choosing the seat furthest from Parvis, so he didn’t have to watch his delicious ex-dinner being stolen. Pulling out his communicator, he dug into the noodles without a word, reading though the backlog of messages he’d been ignoring throughout the day.

Aggravated silence descended over the kitchen yet again as the two men pointedly refused to be the first to break the silence.

For Parvis, the first quarter of the dish or so was easy. He was no stranger to binge-eating, after all – the blood altar frequently stole time from him, whole days where he’d work without food or rest to solve some new problem he’d come up against, running only on blood. He’d come round from those episodes exhausted and starving, and would eat enough to make up for the missed meals before crawling into bed for a full twenty-four hours. It probably wasn’t the most healthy of habits, granted, but it certainly meant that two or three dinners’ worth of pasta wasn’t enough to phase him.

At around the half-way mark, though, Parvis began to struggle.

What had seemed like an excellent way to piss Strife off, and get some delicious, _free_ lasagna in the process, now seemed remarkably like a mistake. The lasagna had begun to stop tasting like food, turning instead into just another heavy mouthful of pasta and sauce to be laboriously chewed and swallowed. Continuing to eat it was taking all his concentration, eyes on the pasta dish and mouth occupied with steadily grinding down whatever he put inside it.

Thankfully, Strife still didn’t seem much inclined to talk. He’d sat down opposite and away from Parvis at the table and was resolutely not looking at him, head lowered and eyes fixed on his communicator as he picked at the reheated noodles with a pair of chopsticks. Parvis knew he was probably complaining to Xephos about how much of a pain in the ass Parv was, and the thought only solidified his resolve to be a _real_ , proper pain in the ass and finish up the casserole.

After all, the great Parvy-Parv didn’t half-ass things, either. Or at least, not important things, like being a petty annoyance.

By the time Parvis had made it through three-quarters of the dish, he was regretting that decision. Panting slightly and pink-cheeked, he’d broken out into a mild sweat, struggling to force each mouthful down. The food was sitting solid and heavy in his gut, and the thought of eating more was long past appealing.

“…Strifey,” he said, gingerly, trying not to gasp the word and give away how difficult breathing had become. The tight waistband of his jeans seemed to be pushing his stomach into the space meant for his lungs. “Can- can I have a glass of water? Please.”

It was the _please_ more than anything that made him look up. Parvis never asked politely for anything, just demanded, and right now it sounded like he was practically begging. “Oh- Jesus, Parvis!” said Strife, alarmed, eyes widening at the state the blood mage had worked himself up into – and at the amount of casserole that was gone. He’d thought Parvis had been _joking_ , but evidently not. “I didn’t mean- you don’t _actually_ have to finish it. Oh hell, don’t make yourself _ill_.”

“No!” snapped Parvis, with all the stroppiness of a two-year-old throwing a temper tantrum. He slammed one hand down on the table hard enough to rattle the temporarily-discarded fork against the china of the dish. “I said I’d finish it, and- and I _will_. The great Parvy-Parv never backs down from a challenge!”

Not even when his stomach was digging into his waistband so hard it was sure to leave marks, so hard he felt like he might be sick at any moment. Surreptitiously, he dropped a hand below the table as Strife stood up with an exasperated grumble to get him a glass of water, and popped the button on his jeans.

It was impossible to hold back the loud, almost obscene _groan_ of relief that escaped him when the pressure eased abruptly, zip pushed open as he inhaled and stretched the waistband of his jeans even further.

Despite his best attempts to hide the noise behind a cough, he wasn’t quite successful enough to stop Strife from whirling around, empty glass in hand. “What the-” he demanded, brow furrowed, staring at a distinctly pinker and more guilty-looking Parvis than he’d seen a moment ago, both hands safely above the table again. “Parvis…”

“Sorry, Strifey,” whined Parvis, doing his best to look pathetic despite the echoes of relief still running through him. “I just feel _really_ sick.” It wasn’t entirely the truth, but it was close enough he figured Strife would buy it, even as his fingers strayed to the fork again and began loading it once more with lasagna.

Strife’s scowl deepened. “I wonder whose fault that is, huh,” he muttered, turning back to the sink to fill the glass and inadvertently giving Parvis a moment’s opportunity to slip his hand beneath the table again and shove his jeans a little lower on his hips. His wrist brushed against his belly as he pulled it back up again, and it sent a shock of confusion through him – that wasn’t where he _remembered_ his stomach being.

But then Strife was heading back to the table with the water, and all thoughts other than shoveling more lasagna down his throat just to make Strife even more pissed off than he already was left his head.

By the time Parvis finally finished the lasagna, another half-hour later, he’d made it through four large glasses of water as well and, even with his jeans undone, felt like he was about to burst.

Panting quietly as he swallowed the last mouthful of food through sheer force of will, and followed it up with a long drink of the last of the water, he set the fork down in the lasagna dish and grinned through the faint – though gradually passing – urge to throw up. “Did it!” he crowed, swallowing convulsively until the nausea had passed and the food had settled a little, heavy and solid in his stomach, the water leaving him with the awkward feeling of _movement_ in it every time he breathed. “Did it, did it!”

“Yes, Parvis, you did it,” huffed Strife, past irritation and into that strange realm of both exasperation and concern that only Parvis could inspire. “Congratulations on being a stubborn idiot. Now the only question is, can you get yourself to the bathroom before you puke all that up, or am I gonna have to make you scrub it off the floor?”

“Of _course_ I can! I’m the great Parvy-Parv,” Parvis proclaimed, though in truth he wasn’t entirely sure. “But I’m _not_ going to throw up, though, because that’s not very great, and it sounds gross.” Another half-lie, something he couldn’t possibly promise, especially not when he felt so full he could barely _breathe_ through it. “Look, I’ll show you!”

He stood up, slowly, gingerly, gasping his way through every movement and clutching at the back of the chair for balance against the way his stomach ached and cramped – and it was only when he heard Strife’s sharp, strangled inhalation that he actually thought to look down at himself.

Instead of the usual flat plane of his stomach, the sharp jut of his hipbones either side smoothed out by his jeans, he was greeted by the sight of a heavy curve. His stomach was not just bulging slightly from the size of his meal, as it did sometimes when he overate after a few days’ inattention to his own needs in favour of the blood altar’s, but actually _protruding_.

Unable to hold in his own noise of surprise, he straightened his spine a little more, watching at the motion stuck his stomach out even further. Like this, he could see that his shirt had ridden up almost halfway over the obscene bulge and was shifting up further with every movement, revealing stretched-taut skin over the huge amount of food he’d stuffed himself full of. He looked like he’d swallowed a basketball and then some, looked almost _pregnant_.

He was torn between disgust at what he’d done, and faint amazement that he’d actually _managed_ it.

“Oh,” he said, softly, touching the top of it and biting his lip when even that tiny motion made everything inside him shift, aching, stretched too-full in a way that was so far past satisfied it was close to pain. The sensation pushed a faint whimper out of him, followed by a barely-there moan when he pressed a flat palm against the middle of it. It was just so _big_ , so tight and heavy and solid beneath his fingers that he couldn’t quite believe it belonged to him. “ _Oh_. …Whoops?”

It was only when he ran a fascinated, almost _awed_ hand over the curve of his belly, and his fingers nudged something that sent heat spreading through him as he reached its underside, that he realised he was hard.

“You- you’re sick,” muttered Strife, staring for a moment – at the bulge in Parvis’ skinny jeans, at the red, angry mark the waistband had left on his skin, at the obscene, swollen curve of his stomach – before tearing his eyes away. Gaze fixed on the ceiling, he tried and failed to stop his cheeks from flushing. Even if he was no longer looking, the image of Parvis was burnt into his eyes, and he was still making those goddamn _noises_.

Huffing and panting as quietly as he could, forced to take shallow breaths because it felt like there was no room left in him for air, Parvis futilely attempted to shift his jeans and dick around to make his erection less obvious. “You started it!” he snapped back, childishly, cheekbones also pink with embarrassment – both at his sudden change in physique, and at his… minor problem.

“It’s- it’s because of the pressure, okay,” he whined, giving up on tugging at his jeans and instead stroking a hand over his bulging stomach to try and ease the ache. “My jeans were too tight, and- and yeah. It’s just the pressure. Nothing _weird_.”

Strife risked another glance, and his breath caught in his chest. Parvis’ fiddling had made things worse, and the head of his cock was now visible through the unzipped vee of his jeans. He was wearing boxers, thank whatever gods were listening, but they were pulled tight over it and left nothing to the imagination, and- Strife had to brutally suppress a groan at the sight of the spreading dark patch in the fabric. 

“Just… go lay down or something,” he said, when he’d finally gathered his wits again, dragging his eyes away again as one hand curled into a white-knuckled fist at his side. “You need to stretch out, or you’re going to get indigestion.”

“Your sofa’s through that way, right?” asked Parvis, jerking a thumb in the direction of the door that attached what could generously be described as a lounge – more of a side-room with a fireplace and an overstuffed couch, and a side table for Strife’s reading glasses and his book of the week – to the kitchen.

Bracing one hand on the back of the dining chair, he tried to straighten up a little more. The stretch on his stomach proved to be too much, though, and he hunched back over with a groan, cradling his midsection with one hand.

“Don’t throw up!” yelped Strife, in mild horror. “Jesus, Parvis, don’t- don’t try and do anything, just go and lay down and I’ll- I’ll go get you a bucket.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, resisting the urge to groan for more reasons than one. “You’re such an _idiot_.”

For a moment, Parvis was tempted to throw back a childish retort, but a sudden, loud gurgle from his stomach interrupted that thought process. He _felt_ it against his hand, a rippling churn, and the shock of it stole whatever words he'd been forming. “…Okay,” he mumbled instead, uncharacteristically quiet, ducking his head so he didn't have to look at the thin line of Strife’s lips. “Okay, I'm gonna go and, um- ummm. Go lie down.”

He turned and waddled slowly, carefully out the kitchen without another word.

Getting to the sofa was more of a trial than he would have believed possible. It was a scant twenty, thirty steps from the kitchen, but every step made the heavy weight of food in his stomach shift and ache, reminded him of how goddamn _tight_ everything felt – his jeans, his shirt, his stomach itself. 

The tightness of his jeans and the friction of the movement also did very little to help the… _problem_ he was currently having. By the time he reached the sofa and very slowly, very carefully collapsed onto it, he was properly, _distractingly_ hard.

“Fucking-” he muttered, stroppily, sticking out his lower lip as he carefully arranged himself on his back on the soft cushions of the sofa. Despite his height, it was long enough for him to stretch out – slowly, so slowly, the memory of how much his stomach had protested his attempts to straighten up in the kitchen still at the forefront of his mind – with only the slightest bend in his knees when his feet were pressed up against the opposite armrest to his head

Once he was settled, he had the chance to look down at himself, and when he did his breath stuttered in his chest. Realising exactly how much food he’d stuffed in himself, being forced to confront the fact that he was big enough that his stomach obscured a significant amount of the view of his lower half, was enough to make his chest tighten with… _something_ , something he didn’t particularly want to put a name to.

His shirt had ridden up even further during the process of lying down, and was now bunched up above the smooth swell of his belly. Reaching down, tentatively, he ran a light hand across the surface of it – twitching involuntarily at how the touch tickled against the stretched, sensitive skin. The bulge was _warm_ , unnaturally so given how cold Parvis usually ran, and refused to give under his tentative prodding, solid with food.

“Parvy-Parv’s outdone himself,” he muttered, not sure whether to be awed or slightly horrified. Stroking over the curve of his stomach, he exhaled slowly, steadily relaxing as the gentle circles his hand drew on the hot, taut skin eased the ache below it. Breathing slowing, the gurgling and churning of his stomach steadily calming, he began to relax.

It was only when his hand dipped a little low, brushing against his jeans, he remembered that they were still unbuttoned and unzipped, forced low on his hips by the new size of his belly. With how high his t-shirt had ridden up, he felt almost exposed, too much skin on display, and his hand paused.

Hauling his jeans higher up his hips took a little bit of tugging and rocking his hips up off the sofa, much to his stomach’s protests, but he managed it. The ensuing wriggling to get comfortable on the sofa again managed, he suspected, to drag them right back down again, but the point was that he’d tried. Strife couldn’t fault him for _trying_ , especially when he was so heavy, when wriggling was so uncomfortable, when his cock rubbed against the inside of his jeans with every movement-

His erection, previously forgotten, was suddenly at the forefront of his mind again – his hands dangerously close to it, still resting between the waist of his jeans and the swell of his stomach.

It was _so easy_ to reach down past his waistband, though, to find the soft fabric of his boxers in the vee of his open flies and run a slow thumb down his length through the stretched cotton. Even that tiny amount of friction felt heavenly, and he whimpered, bit his lip in a belated attempt to keep the sound inside.

A quick peek at the door between the kitchen and the lounge showed Strife was nowhere to be seen, and Parvis exhaled quiet relief. At least Strife hadn’t seen… _wouldn’t_ see, if Parvis was careful, if he kept an eye on the door.

That plan failed the minute he ran a thumb over his clothed cock again, and his eyes squeezed shut of their own accord. At least this time the teeth dug into his lip muffled his sharp, shaky exhale, though it didn’t stop the faint rock of his hips up into the touch.

As much as he wanted to tease, he was far too turned on to be satisfied with the faint brush of fingertips for long. Within a minute he had a hand wrapped over the outline of his dick, rubbing at it, grinding up against his palm as he bit his lip almost hard enough to make it bleed.

He wasn’t sure _why_ it felt so good, so much better than normal despite the heavy ache of his stomach, but it did. Something about the weight of it, how full he felt, stuffed so full it was an effort to breathe, the way his hand brushed the curve of his stomach with every rolling stroke of his cock… it had reduced Parvis to a wreck, eyes shut tight and face half-pressed into the sofa cushions as he huffed out tiny, helplessly aroused breaths with every movement of his hand-

“Jesus _christ_ ,” came a voice, somewhere between disgusted and unsurprised, from across the room.

Parvis gasped, eyes flying open and hand falling instantly away from the hard line of his cock. The wet patch in his boxers had spread even further, his cock practically _dripping_ precome, and the outline of it was even more visible against the thin cotton of his boxers now he’d pushed his jeans down a little more. “Strifey-” he managed, guiltily. “I didn’t-”

Teeth gritted, desperately in denial about the fact that the sight of Parvis – stretched out on the sofa, heavy and swollen with food, touching himself with half-lidded eyes – had started a low heat between his legs, Strife waved a hand. “Whatever,” he said, roughly. “You know what? What- whatever, Parvis. You’re a goddamn _animal_ , but- whatever. Just. Just don’t do that while I’m in the room.”

He stalked over, setting the bucket he’d found down next to the sofa near Parvis’ head. “There. In case you throw up.” He smoothed hands down the front of his shirt, trying to gain a modicum of composure again and only marginally succeeding. “Have fun with your, uh, _me time_. On my goddamn sofa, nonetheless, you disgusting-”

As he turned to leave, though, Parvis’ hand caught around his wrist.

Strife froze at the touch of skin on skin – at the realisation that the hand Parvis had been touching himself with a mere minute ago was now touching _him_. “Strifey,” whined Parvis, apparently oblivious to Strife’s sudden rabbit-in-the-headlights impression. “It _hurts_ though. My tummy hurts. You’re not going to just leave me here _suffering_ , are you?” He pouted, sticking his lower lip out, making the closest thing to puppy-eyes at Strife that he could when they were dancing with amusement. “You should give me a tummy rub, Strifey.”

“For-” Strife growled, grinding his teeth. “For the love of god, Parvis, I am _not_ touching you while you- you- _jerk yourself off_!” He made the mistake of looking down at Parvis, and winced when he saw the puppy dog eyes, which only intensified as he made eye contact. “Goddamnit. God _damn_ it. Okay. _Fine_. But if your hand goes _anywhere_ near- _there_ , then I’m throwing you out the tower.”

Parvis grinned widely, managing a small fist-pump of victory at his side. “Yesss!” he cheered, before pausing with a soft groan at the motion jogged his stomach. “Ooh, ouch. Don’t worry, Strifey, I’ll be a good boy and keep my hands where you can see them.”

Oddly enough, that particular phrasing combined with Parvis’ borderline-sleazy smile was hardly comforting, but Strife had already agreed – and he wasn’t one to back down from an agreement, after all. Huffing and grumbling to himself, he grabbed one of the soft chairs that flanked the sofa and dragged it over until he was in a position he could sit in it and still reach Parvis’ stomach.

Taking a deep breath, and gritting his teeth, Strife reached out a hand.

It was strange enough just _touching_ Parvis, if Strife were honest. Parvis was very touchy-feely, always prodding and poking and grabbing and hugging – but they were generally brief flashes of contact, and always through clothes. Even when Parvis threw himself into Strife in a whole-body hug, Strife stood still and rigid, not reciprocating, barely tolerating.

This, though… this was different. He tentatively rested a splay-fingered hand on Parvis’ skin, he took a moment to adjust to the contact. Humans ran cooler than his species, he knew from experience, and Parvis ran oddly cool even for a human – no doubt a side effect of opening his veins so often for an eternally-hungry altar.

Nevertheless, the centre of Parvis’ stomach was far warmer than it usually was, hot and pinkish from the strain put on it. He ran a hand over the taut, stretched skin lightly, barely ghosting his palm over it, and Parvis twitched, muffling a giggle. “Be _quiet_ , Parv,” muttered Strife, more out of habit than anything, no malice behind it. He ran his hand over the curve again, and Parvis twitched again, shuddering.

The noise he made this time, though, was slightly less giggle and slightly more strained arousal. Strife’s cheeks pinked, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

“Jesus christ,” he mumbled, softly, settling into slow, circling motions with his palm, firm enough to not tickle but light enough they hopefully wouldn’t cause any discomfort. He carefully ignored the niggling weirdness of the situation, focusing instead on the task at hand. “I didn’t realise humans were this goddamn _stretchy_ … how did you even fit this all in there? You’re _huge_ , Parvis.”

There was no response, and Strife frowned, the circles he was drawing on Parvis’ swollen, aching stomach growing a little smaller. “…Parvis?” he asked, again, rubbing a thumb against the side of his belly to try and prompt some actual words, the work-roughened pad of it scraping against smooth skin, shiny from being pulled so taut across the huge amount of food inside it. “You still there?” 

When he looked up, Parvis’ eyes were half-closed, lower lip caught between his teeth and bitten pink with the effort to swallow down whatever sounds were crowding his throat.

Watching him intently, Strife dragged a hand over his stomach again, top to bottom, in one slow, firm stroke. A small gasp escaped Parvis, and he twitched, seemingly unsure of whether to pull away from the too-much pressure of the touch or push up into it.

Strife went back to circles, slow and firm, but the dam had apparently broken. Soft exhales escaped Parvis with every motion, and the harder Strife pressed, the louder they got, until Parvis’ hands were curled into fists at his sides and Strife’s palm was pressing a dent into his stomach.

It was surprisingly difficult to manage even that much – Parvis had stuffed himself literally to his limit, no room left inside him for anything to compress down, and pressing on his stomach was like touching an inflated basketball. Parvis made the most _incredible_ noises every time he did, though, strange little strangled, hitching moans that weren’t quite pain but definitely weren’t all pleasure either. The pressure could hardly be comfortable, but apparently the reminder of just how swollen and rounded and stuffed he’d made himself, belly taut and shiny and obscenely full and protruding, was an oddly welcome one.

This whole thing was _wrong_ , Strife knew, especially when he’d been berating Parvis for being weird about this earlier, but… he just couldn’t help himself. The way Parvis shuddered beneath his touch, the swollen heat of his stomach, the tiny noises that escaped him, were all only stoking the fire that had started burning low in Strife’s gut the moment he’d first realised Parvis was hard.

Easing off, he pulled his hand back until just the tips of his fingers were against the skin, feather-light touches of calloused fingertips and bitten-ragged nails against the overly sensitive skin. Parvis outright _squirmed_ with it, head pressed back against the cushion and eyes little more than a dark strip between his eyelashes as something that sounded almost like a moan escaped him. The touch was good, almost heavenly, warmth soothing the ache of his stomach stretched to capacity and then some, the touch relaxing even as it reminded of him of exactly how obscenely huge and unnaturally firm he’d made his stomach.

They settled into an easy pattern – or, Strife did, anyways, Parvis too obviously wound-up to _settle_ into anything. He alternated between slow, firm circles that made Parvis groan and swallow hard, made the already-taut skin of his belly tighten even further beneath the pressure of his hand, and tracing light fingertips over the sensitised, warm skin until Parvis was squirming.

It didn’t take long for Parvis to break beneath the attention.

“Strife,” he gasped eventually, trembling under the touch of Strife’s hand. The touch of skin against skin had, unsurprisingly, done nothing to help how achingly hard he was. Instead, the warmth of Strife’s palm, the steady pressure against his stomach, the slow circles that had eased the pain of it, had all just made things worse. 

He needed to touch himself, needed Strife to touch him, needed- _something_ , he didn’t know what, didn’t care what. He just needed the aching arousal in the pit of his stomach, already full and tight with food, to be eased until he was no longer _choking_ on it. 

“Yeah?” said Strife, tone even and oblivious even as he rubbed another warm, firm circle on the unbearably tender swell of Parvis’ stomach. Parvis cursed Strife in his head even as he almost _sobbed_ , breath hitching in his throat. It was too much, all of it – Strife’s hand on him, the heavy weight in his gut, the warmth, the pressure, the steady throb of his dick still trapped in his boxers, how goddamn _full_ he felt.

Strife was teasing him, he knew it, and he couldn’t take much more of it without _dying_ – or coming in his pants, whichever happened first.

“ _Strife_ ,” he whined, pathetically, and any other time he’d have been ashamed, but he didn’t have the mental capacity for that right now. “God, Strife, Strifey, c’mon, _please_ -” His hips twitched without his permission, pushing the curve of his stomach up against Strife’s hand.

His jeans slipped a little further down his hips with the drag of the motion against the couch cushions, pulled his boxers down with them, and Parvis hissed through his teeth as the head of his cock pushed out from under the waistband of his boxers.

Strife froze at the movement, at the sudden glimpse of Parvis’ cock, hand stilling on Parvis’ stomach. He should look away, he knew, stare up at the ceiling, but he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away.

“Goddamn it,” he muttered, quietly, ignoring the small noise somewhere between confusion and desperation that Parvis made in response. “God damn it, Parv, you- I can’t believe you-” The space between his legs was aching, throbbing, and if he hadn’t soaked through his boxers before then he definitely had now. He was surprised the crotch of his trousers hadn’t started glowing yet. “This is _so_ -”

He couldn’t finish any of his sentences, couldn’t find the words. Couldn’t think of anything other than the wet ache between his legs and the head of Parvis’ cock and the heavy swell of Parvis’ stomach beneath his hand.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted this badly – and, by _god_ , did he want.

Parvis moaned, again, a thin, pitiful noise accompanied by a twitch of his hips that nudged the head of his cock against the tender underside of his stomach. The contact made him gasp, left a sticky smear of precome that stretched in a thin string between his cock and taut skin, and Strife…

Something in Strife snapped, self control or common sense or whatever barrier had been holding back the heady arousal now clouding his mind. Before he knew what was happening, his hand was at the button and zipper of his trousers, undoing them, hooking thumbs into the waistband of both his trousers and boxers and tugging them down.

“This is your fault,” he snapped, standing up to push the offending items of clothing to the floor and kick them off his feet. Standing stripped from the waist down in his own living room, he shivered a little, painfully aware of how _exposed_ he was and the way the space between his legs was giving off a faint, greenish light. “Your goddamn- why do you _always_ do this shit, Parvis, honestly-”

Like this, it was obvious how aroused he was. His sheath was already slick and glowing, the thousands of tiny, bioluminescent cilia that lined the inside of it already uncurling and waving tentatively in the cool air. When he dropped a hand down to cup himself, he jumped with the shock of the contact, flinched. His fingers came away glowing green with his own fluids.

He could feel Parvis staring at him, wide-eyed and close to open-mouthed, and very carefully ignored it. Instead, he fought the urge to touch himself again, to run gentle fingers around the edge of his sheath until he was acclimated enough to push the fingers _inside_ and just fuck himself to a quick, filthy orgasm right there. It really had been too long since the last time he’d touched himself, he realised, even as he grit his teeth and ignored the lure of pleasure to scramble up onto the couch and straddle Parvis, kneeling up with legs either side of his hips.

For a brief moment the thought flitted through his head that, with the slightest tilt of his hips forward, he could lower himself until his sheath was touching Parvis’ bulging stomach and get himself off that way – grind against the taut skin there and smear it green and glowing with his slick until he came from the friction alone. He wondered what sort of noises Parvis would make if he did _that_ , given how badly he’d been whimpering and whining just from the pressure of a hand on it. 

The thought made the heat between his legs _throb_.

“You-” said Parvis, faintly, boner very temporarily forgotten as he stared at the space between Strife’s legs, at the pale glow of it, up to the flushed green glow and scattered freckles of Strife’s face, and then back down to his sheath. “You’ve got… a thing. A thingy. A glowing thingy.”

He didn’t look particularly upset by the revelation, more surprised than anything, but Strife still exhaled impatiently. He wanted, and he wanted _now_ , and dealing with Parvis’ confusion was wasting the precious seconds he could be spending with something _inside_ him.

“I’m a goddamn alien, Parvis, what were you expecting?” he asked, a little roughly, fighting the urge to touch himself again and losing this time. He ran a hand down his shirt to between his legs, teased his entrance with the tip of one finger, tentative and careful, gasping at how sensitive he was, how eager his cilia were. It’d been a long time since he’d even touched himself, let alone since anyone else had, and it felt like every one of his nerves was a live wire. “No, I don’t have a dick, yes, I’m still a guy, now- c’mon-”

Parvis exhaled shakily, tipping his head back against the cushion and swallowing down a hysterical giggle. This had all started as a childish attempt to piss Strife off, and now here he was – laid out on Strife’s couch, stuffed more full than he thought was possible, with his boss, teacher, best friend kneeling over him naked from the waist down and as close to begging for cock as Parvis suspected he’d ever get.

“Go on, then,” he said, somewhere between sly and breathless, when he was sure he wasn’t going to laugh the minute the words left his mouth. Laboriously, panting, he reached down past the swell of his stomach and between Strife’s thighs to hook thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, dragging them further down his legs until his cock sprung free.

He wasn’t all that thick, he knew – though that looked to be a good thing, given how narrow what he’d seen of Strife’s sheath was. Slipping his hands back up over his waist, stopping to caress his stomach for a brief moment and feel the taut, bulging swell of it, he licked his lips. What he lacked in girth, he more than made up for in length, and even as Strife wrapped a tentative hand around him, he wondered if the alien would be able to take all of him. How deep did that sheath go? Would he-?

Words, and most of his higher brain functions, abruptly failed him as Strife sank down onto the length of his cock in one swift slide, with an obscenely wet noise and something that was almost a _sob_.

Parvis cried out even as Strife groaned, settling himself on Parvis’ hips and stilling to adjust to the feeling of something inside him again after so long. He clenched down experimentally, and Parvis wailed again, the feeling of the many cilia pressing up against his dick and caressing it softly so utterly alien but so _good_.

“Fuck,” breathed out Strife, the word little more than a moan, circling his hips tentatively and grinding down against Parvis as everything loosened up. He was wet, and aroused beyond belief, and Parvis wasn’t all that thick, so it wasn’t hard, exactly – but humans were always a little more than he could comfortably take, no matter how skinny, and Parvis was long enough he could almost feel the push of his dick in his gut. “Fuck, Parv…”

“C’mon,” whined Parvis, when he found his words again, panting even worse than before between the stuffed pressure of his stomach and the way Strife’s wet heat around his dick was driving the air out of his lungs with every clench. “C’mon, then, fuck me, do it Strifey-” He nudged his hips up, as much as he dared, jolting Strife enough to make him yelp.

Bracing one hand against the back of the sofa and the other on Parvis’ chest, carefully clear of his stomach, Strife actually _growled_. “Oh, I’m going to, Parvis,” he muttered, levering himself up slowly onto his knees and dropping down, once, almost experimentally. “I’m going to.” The motion drove Parvis’ cock deep into him again, hard enough they both cried out, Parvis trembling beneath him as Strife’s chin fell against his chest. It was good, so good, that it took a moment to collect himself.

It was easier, this time, to lift himself up and slide down again. He hadn’t done this in a long while, but the rhythm was easy and familiar, simple enough to settle into once he found it again. It took a little longer for his nerves to stop screaming, for every slide down Parvis’ dick to not sent off explosive fireworks of friction that were good to to point of painful – but they did, eventually, and Strife grinned with bared teeth.

Parvis was already writhing beneath him, as best he could with he swollen weight of his stomach pinning him down and aching whenever he shifted too much. But, fully adjusted, Strife sped up, riding Parvis harder and faster, shoving down against him to slam his cock back in even harder, lifting himself up high enough that only the head of it stayed inside him between each slide.

Everything other than the pleasure fell away, leaving him in a glowing haze of friction and moaning as he rocked against Parvis’ cock, fucking himself down onto it mindlessly. Beneath him, Parvis was sobbing, squirming, so close already. Strife was oblivious to all of that, though, too focused on the thickness inside of him, how well Parvis filled him up, the way his stomach brushed up against Parvis’ swollen one whenever he leaned forward.

He wanted to beg, to swear, to praise Parvis, but there were no words for what he was feeling, no words for the fire prickling over his skin and consuming him. All he could do was ride Parvis like the world was ending, clenching hard on every push down so his cilia dragged over every ridge and vein, and gasp for breath that was driven from his lungs every time Parvis fucked deep enough into him that Strife was sure he could _taste_ it.

Parvis came quickly – he’d been hard for what felt like an hour, and Strife was just so _good_ , slick and soft and so goddamn _hot_ , the little cillia fluttering against him and the sheath clenching around him in a way that was beyond delicious. He generally had the stamina of a horny virgin, anyways, so it was hardly a surprise when he pushed up to meet one of Strife’s thrusts and _yelled_ , filling Strife’s sheath with his come as he almost sobbed his way through his orgasm. 

Strife groaned at the heat of Parvis’ come inside of him, clenching around his cock, desperately chasing his own orgasm as Parvis cried out and bucked up into him with tiny twitches of his hips. He _needed_ , a sharp ache in his gut, a slow-banking heat that left him almost out of his mind with lust.

Desperate, more aroused than he could remember being in a _long_ time, Strife rode Parvis through it – and then carried on rocking down against him even as Parvis softened slowly and let out quiet, hitching sobs with how _oversensitive_ he was. When Parvis’ soft cock slipped out of him, Strife groaned frustration, lifted himself up onto his knees and shoved three fingers into himself instead even as Parvis’ come trickled out down his thighs.

He found his orgasm like that, kneeling above Parvis’ prone form, gasping, dripping come and his own luminescent slick onto the stuffed-full curve of Parvis’ stomach as he came with his fingers shoved up to the knuckle in his own sheath.

Muscles clenching around his fingers in hard, rhythmic contractions, he moaned loud and obscene and mindless, hunching over at the wave of pleasure that spread through his gut and down to his thighs, up his spine. He was trembling, sweat on his forehead and his thighs glossy and slippery with slick, hips twitching instinctively down onto the thickness pushed inside him.

When he finally came back to himself enough to slip his fingers out, they pulled away with an filthy, wet, _sucking_ sound, another gush of slick dripping down his thighs and staining them glowing green.

Parvis opened his mouth, almost obediently, and Strife groaned, still panting and twitching with the aftershocks of his orgasm. “ _God_ ,” he muttered, dragging his clean had through his hair even as he nudged the fingers stained with his and Parvis’ come against Parvis’ bitten-ragged lower lip. “You- you can’t _still_ be hungry, can you?”

He got no response, other than a wicked quirk of Parvis’ lips, and Parvis’s tongue sinful-hot and wet against his fingers. Groaning quietly, he caught himself from slumping forward against Parvis’ chest – and the tender swell of his stomach by extension – just in time, and instead settled back on Parvis’ hips again, pushing his fingers further in.

Parvis took everything he was given, more than willingly, sucking and licking until the familiar taste of himself and the less familiar taste of Strife was replaced once more by clean skin. The alien slick wasn’t bitter enough to be anything human, an almost sour but not quite unpleasant note of something sharply citrus to it. Parvis chased every last taste of it, licking Strife clean and moaning around the fingers in his mouth as he did so.

By the time he’d finished, he was hard again, the swollen head of his cock nudging oversensitive and dripping against the underside of his belly.

When Strife shifted forward, leaning in to pull his saliva-wet fingers free of Parvis’ mouth, the slippery folds and questing cilia of his sheath rubbed against the base of Parvis’ dick. Parvis couldn’t help the way he groaned, letting his head fall back against the sofa cushion even as he ground up against Strife out of sheer instinct.

Strife hissed sharply through his teeth at the bright flash of _too much, too soon_ from the friction. “Jeez, Parv,” he complained, lifting himself up onto his knees again despite the way his thighs shook to get away from the discomfort of it. “Give- give a guy a break for a minute, god.” He felt raw, still tender, wrung out in the best way possible. There was no way he was going to cope with anything else until the hypersensitivity of his cilia abated. “Goddamn _insatiable_.”

Huffing frustration, Parvis stuck his lower lip out full and shiny in a pout. For a moment, he debated reaching between his stomach and Strife’s crotch to jerk himself off, see if he could add to the mess on his belly and between Strife’s legs. But the angle was awkward, and that sounded like effort, so he gave up before his hand had moved more than an inch and let it flop back against the couch.

It didn’t take him more than a moment to come up with another idea, far more fun than the last.

“…Now that you’ve mentioned it,” he said, slowly, wickedly, smoothing a hand over the taut, shiny skin of his stomach. “I think I _might_ be hungry again, Strifey.” He stretched out with all the easy grace of a cat, arching his spine a little to push his obscenely full stomach a little further out. “Why don't you go see what you've got in the freezer for dessert? If we’re gonna be waiting for your old man’s sex drive to come back, we should have some _fun_.”

Strife had no words in answer to that, only a throb between his legs and the almost overwhelming urge to put his hands on that stomach again, his mouth, touch and kiss and lick it all over until Parvis was the sobbing, squirming mess again he'd been just minutes before.

“I… I think I've got some ice cream stashed away somewhere,” said Strife, faintly, eyes still fixed on Parvis grinning like the cat that got the cream. “You, uh. Want me to go, um, dig it out?”

Parvis just smiled wider, licking his lips with a tongue that still glowed faintly green. He had no idea if he even _could_ eat anything else – but Strife’s eyes had gone wide, pupils blow, cheeks flushed. “I think that’s a good idea, Strifey,” he said, low enough to make Strife’s sheath ache with how empty it was, a pulse of fresh, glowing slick trickling out and down the sticky mess of his thighs. “Don’t you?”

“God,” breathed Strife, scrambling carefully off the sofa and getting to his feet, apparently heedless of the fact he was naked from the waist down, that he looked absolutely _wrecked_. He pressed the heel of one hand against the opening of his sheath and ground down against it to try and ease the steady throb in time to his heartbeat, hissing through the friction of it, hollow and aching. “Oh god, yeah.”

Turning, he stumbled away on unsteady feet towards the kitchen, one hand still between his legs. Parvis watched him go, stumbling, thighs glowing, two fingers pushing up into himself like he just couldn’t _help_ himself. So much for being too sensitive, it seemed…


End file.
